


Mattering

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nook Eating, Nook Worship, Praise Kink, Self-Worth Issues, Sexual Content, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:42:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2753246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You matter,” you say, and you see him break, you see the little, taped together pieces of his false bravado and confidence shatter, you see the way his mouth drops open and he chokes a little, hands gripping too tight to the hair at the base of your neck, “You are young, and foolish, and you have made mistakes, but you matter.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mattering

**Author's Note:**

> i havet posted anything in like a bajillion years and it sucks but here have it i dont wanna look at it anymore

 

He’s a fucking brat.

 

That’s the first thing you notice about the Beforan version of you- he’s a fucking brat, arrogant, whiny, pathetic and weak and full of problems, and in the beginning, you want to hit him. You want to hit him, and yell at him, snarl and show him through angry words and actions just how much of a fucking disgrace he is.

 

And one day, he does something, says something, sidles up to you with a cheesy pick up line on his lips and one of those disgusting human cigarettes in his mouth, and you raise your fist and snarl; everything stops.

 

Because he cowers away from you, hands raised defensively, eyes wide and scared, but he doesn't run, he doesn't call for help, he just… sits there. Looking at you. Trembling. And you might be soft, you might be weak, but you can’t bring yourself to hit him, not when he’s staring at you like he can’t remember the difference between good and bad attention, kind or violent touch, and he’s just glad he’s not being ignored. So you bring your hand down, and he cringes, preparing for pain, but instead of hitting him, you touch the side of his face lightly, and his entire body seizes up like he doesn't know how to react.

 

It’s… heartbreaking.

 

You touch him softly, and he shakes, fins pinned back, hands still shielding himself. You touch him softly, and he quivers, mouth dropping open, hands lowering. You touch him softly, and he sighs, eyes fluttering shut, hands falling to his side, and you wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him close to your chest, thumb still brushing against his cheek.

 

“Hush,” you say, and he jumps at the noise, skittish, “I’m not goin' to hit you.”

 

He makes an odd noise, like a grub being stepped on, and his forehead thumps against your armour, hiding his face from you.

 

“When was the last time someone touched you?” you say, voice quiet, and he shrugs loosely, hands sneaking up to press against your chest, fingers curling, like he can grasp, hold, keep you there forever.

 

He reminds you of you, and perhaps that’s why you were so frustrated with him, at first. He reminds you of you, but a softer you, a sadder you, one who’d never grown out of his need for acceptance, for acknowledgement. One who’d never found an outlet for his futile rage and bitter self-hatred, and you want to shake him, smack him, and cradle him close, all at once.

 

There’s a bitter, pained feeling in your gut when you realizes he would let you do all those things and more. He would submit to your fists, bow beneath the force of your blows, and crawl back for more, if only because the slightest bit of attention, the smallest affirmation that he means _something_ to _someone_ , is addictive to him. He would do whatever you asked just for a fleeting taste of your focus, and it makes you sick.

 

You brush your hand over his head, thumb rubbing against one earfin, and he chirrs at you dazedly, turning his head up to stare at you with wide, glazed eyes, drunk off touch and lost in the feel of your hands on his body. You shush him, and he closes his mouth obediently.

 

“Good boy.”

 

His knees buckle, and you barely catch him in time, lifting him up into your arms and cradling him to your chest like a child. His fingers clutch desperately at the gaps and grooves in your armor, and he shivers, a high, almost pained noise spilling from his lips.

 

“Shhh,” you say, shifting your weight from foot to foot, rocking a bit; you pet his hair with the hand you aren’t using to hold his negligible body weight, keeping his head pressed to the crook of you neck as he shudders, “Shhh, Cronus.”

 

You… were not expecting that severe of a reaction. You’re not sure why, just looking at him now it’s obvious to see he’s in desperate need of gentle handling, but you were not expecting him to crumple to the ground from a few kind words. He struggles to silence himself, though, trying so hard to obey, to keep quiet, but he whines anyways, tensing up.

 

“It’s alright,” you murmur, and he relaxes again, his tears soaking your shoulder, “It’s alright, love, it’s alright.”

 

He goes limp in your arms, worryingly so, but he’s still crying and still making noise so he hasn’t passed out or any such thing; you just hold his slack frame close and continue crooning reassurances, petting his hair and scratching around the bases of his horns with the tips of your claws until the tears peter out, and he lays still, breath hitching in little hiccups, his arms loose and dangling at his sides.

 

And then you walk. You walk back to your own hive, carrying him with you, and when you arrive, you sit down on the comfy, overstuffed leather chair you have in your office and hold him in your lap, running your hands over him softly.

 

“…What're you doin' to me?” he whimpers, voice quiet, broken, shaky and cracked and still hitching, “Why- why’re you doin' this?”

 

He doesn’t sound the same as you; his voice is higher, softer, more childish and bastardized with the human slang and speech patterns he throws around everywhere, and it makes him seem young, vulnerable.

 

“You can’t even tell the difference between positive and negative attention anymore, can you.”

 

He doesn’t respond, just keeps sniffling, face hidden from you.

 

“You want acknowledgement so desperately you’re willin' to take any kind, from anyone. You poor thing.”

 

He makes a sound like he’s dying, a ragged, terrible sound, pained, and when you go to move him back, so you can see him, he clings to you, terrified, like you’re going to dump him off your lap and walk away.

 

And suddenly, you are angry. You are furious, because someone, everyone, has hurt him so badly that he adheres himself to any source of attention, negative or no. He grasps with thin, tar stained fingers, clutching tight and not letting go until it’s pried from him, until he’s left broken and wanting on the ground, and this has happened so many times that he doesn’t even see a problem with it anymore. He’s a hopeless, forlorn little thing, shattered into pieces by cruelty and indifference and his own horrible, all encompassing lack of self worth, and you are angry because he is small, and scared, and yours.

 

He and you share the same sign, the same blood, and that’s as close to a claim you could ever get. He is yours, and he is precariously balanced on a thin line between healable and irreparable, and he’s leaning.

 

So you pry him from your armour, catching his trembling, grasping, stick thin fingers in your own, and you tilt his head up, forcing him to meet your eyes.

 

His are blank, of course, as are yours, but there’s still emotion in them, still pain and loneliness and fear, marked by the lines and grooves in the skin around his eye sockets and the diluted violet tears that spill from the empty whiteness. You lean forward, and he shivers, cringing, like you’re going to bite him, rip him apart with your teeth; you press the softest of kisses to his full, bitten lips, coaxing his mouth open with your tongue and holding him still when he jolts at the touch.

 

He tastes like salt and sea, with an undercurrent of bitter tobacco and sweet candy, and he throws his arms around your neck and tugs you close, his knees digging into your sides as he clings to you.

 

When you pull away, he chases after you, trying to corral you into another kiss, but his breath is too quick and uneven and he needs a break, so you shush him and push him back a bit, your hands wrapped around his ribcage.

 

“You matter,” you say, and you see him break, you see the little, taped together pieces of his false bravado and confidence shatter, you see the way his mouth drops open and he chokes a little, hands gripping too tight to the hair at the base of your neck, “You are young, and foolish, and you have made mistakes, but you matter.”

 

He cries silently, hopelessly, like it doesn’t matter if he sheds tears or not because no one will care, but as you’re quickly discovering, you care far more than you’d thought. So you tilt his chin up, and you brush away his tears, and you kiss him on the mouth again, cradling his soft face in your hands, your fingers cupping his jaw easily. He’s small, and soft, fragile and trembling in your arms, with a bit of give to his face and his waist, like nothing any Alternian would ever have. He’s… you’d almost say delicate, except there’s a sort of heaviness to him that suggests strength, a weight to him that turns his figure from waifish to almost stocky, and you know that it’s only your knowledge of how breakable his crumbling psyche is that makes you see him as anything other than durable and strong, even as a Beforan.

 

He melts when you kiss him, fingers grasping, tangling in your hair and holding you close, and you rub a hand over his spine, fingers dancing over the dip in the skin that marks its location. He’s responsive, arching into the touch and chirping quietly into your mouth, tongue tentatively brushing against yours; you purr, chest rumbling with the noise.

 

You pull away again, and this time he stays put, panting for breath.

 

“You matter,” you repeat, and he shivers, staring up at you, awed and adoring, “You matter, Cronus Ampora,” you tell him, and it burns because you tell him the same thing you wish you’d heard, when you were his age, alone and hopeless and aching for acknowledgement.

 

The things you’d gone on to do were horrible, nightmarish, and haunted you to this day. You’d done things that would make the horror terrors shrink back in fear, all in the hopes that your empress would see you, notice you, accept you.

 

You do not want that for him.

 

He is wavering on the edge between bleak acceptance of his circumstances and fatalistic, reckless desperation for any sort of acceptance, no matter who or where it comes from. Once he hits that point, there will be no return, no fixing what has been wrought, this you know from experience. You don’t want that for him, so you hold him close and murmur affirmations into his ear, you kiss him and touch him and tell him that he matters, because it’s the one thing you’d wished so desperately to hear.

 

And of course, he reacts. Once again, you should have expected it; with the way he responds to touch, it must have been sweeps since he last felt any sort of kind contact. It’s no surprise that your soft touches and kisses would make him react, would prompt his quiet, pleased trills and sighs, and the slight grinding of his hips.

 

Poor thing. Poor, poor Cronus, poor wriggler, he’s so overwhelmed already, panting, eyes shut, fingers tangled in your hair as he rocks his hips against nothing, trembling almost violently. You run your hands over his back, his sides, and rest them on his hips, slowing and guiding his motions, bringing him closer, giving him something to grind against. The slightest bit of contact makes him moan out loud, his hands tugging at your hair as he shakily rolls his hips against yours, every movement a shiver, a shudder, a shake, unpracticed and unfamiliar, but it’s poetry, the way he smooths out with simple guidance, the lightest prompting here or there turning harsh, jerky motions into fluid ones, like with every second you don’t toss him out on his ass he feels more and more secure.

 

He’s so beautifully responsive, you barely need to guide him; simple touch is enough, and once you start to move against him, he easily falls into a matching rhythm, your hips moving together. It’s like music, dancing, on time and in beat, and it’s perfect.

 

“You’re doin' so well, Cro,” you say, voice soft, and he tosses his head back and moans, the sound needy and wanton. You run your hands over his chest, his sides, and push his shirt up and away, the fabric dropping to the floor with a soft shush of sound, and then your hands are touching him, skin to skin, and he lets out a noise like pain and wonder and awe all mixed together.

 

His fingers scrabble over your chest, frantically searching for the armor catches; you help him out, removing the heavy stuff and the undershirt below it. Within seconds, he’s plastered against you, and he cries out, hypersensitive and needy.

 

Your hands run over his back, pressing against the dip of his spine, rubbing over smooth, unscarred skin, and he gasps and moans and grinds his hips ever so desperately against you that you’re positive he just isn’t going to last. Oh well. This isn’t for you to get off, this is for him, for his comfort, for his needs, and right now what he needs is you. Is touch. He’s been so starved of it, the poor thing, the most basic trollian right denied, and he shudders and whines as you press your hands to him firmly, the contact solid as you draw your skin over his, rubbing and caressing. Every touch prompts a twitch here, a shiver there, and you continue until he finally just leans into your hands, purring loud and content.

 

A kiss here, a kiss there, and you just touch, your hands smoothing over his skin, soothing his trembling, getting him used to it again, and with every moment he spends held in your lap, he calms, relaxes, until he’s draped over you, his arms slung around your shoulders and his head resting against your chest. His fins flutter in time with your heartbeat, his breath settles to match the rhythm of yours, and you tilt his head up, kissing him again. His lips part lazily, his tongue tangling with your own, and it’s soft, slow, not like the rushed pace of before. Everything is smoothed out, evened out, and he’s calm and relaxed and languid in his movements, letting you hold him close, letting you dictate the pace.

 

His hips roll languorously against your own, and he sighs, following the softest of guiding touches; your hand presses against his chest, barely there, and he eases back, draping himself over your desk in an almost artful way. He looks like it, like an art piece instead of a real troll, all sharp jutting angles and smooth skin, and his pants are open and shoved down enough for his bulge to curl needily over the unmarred pale grey of his stomach, leaving sticky trails of violet lubricant over the flesh like paint streaks.

 

“Gorgeous,” you say, and he arches for you, fins flared and coloured in display, almost preening at the praise. It’s like he’s feeding off of your approval, your attention, and you ghost your hands down his chest, over his hips, and draw his remaining clothes from his body with ease, leaving him bare and at your mercy.

 

He spreads his legs for you, his hands pressing flat against the wood of the desk, nook dripping violet over the dark surface, and he looks like art, like something carved from the soft grey marble lining the bottoms of the depths of the ocean; delicate fins and soft curves and hard planes, contrasting and consonant, and yours. You press a kiss to his inner thigh, and he gasps. You lick over the junction of his hip and thigh, and he whimpers. You dip your head, and lave your tongue over the wet, trembling opening of his nook, and he cries out, high and loud, his legs wrapping around your shoulders and his entire body arching from the desk like he’s been shocked by a live wire.

 

Your hands smooth over his thighs, holding him still, keeping him from jackknifing off the desk, but your tongue does not cease its movements; it’s obvious he’s never been touched like this before, and you work your way into him slowly, your tongue pressing against all the spots you know are the most sensitive. His entire body writhes, hands clenched in your hair like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, and he makes the most astonishing amount of noise. It’s like he hasn’t a care in the world who or what hears him, and his cries and whimpers and wordless pleas echo through the room without censorship.

 

There is nothing and no one  here but you and him, but still, even under such secluded circumstances, hearing him come undone so soon, hearing his voice so unfettered by social convention and whatever stupid limits he places upon himself, it’s good. Despite your resolve not to do anything for yourself, for this to be solely about him, you can feel your bulge curling against the fabric of your pants, straining and pushing and being generally distracting.

 

Without pause, you unbutton your pants one handed, shoving them down around your hips just enough to free your insistent, impatient bulge. You don’t give it any more attention than that, however; you leave it to knot and curl against your stomach as you turn all your focus to Cronus, and, more specifically, Cronus’s nook. The poor boy is hardly able to breathe at this point, clenching around you irregularly, hips shivering in your grip, and you pet over his sides and stomach as you fuck him with your tongue, trying to bring him to some sort of climax, if you can. He might be too overwhelmed with sensation at this point, too much too fast, but he proves you wrong by tugging at your hair, rocking his hips against your face, and letting out a sound you have no descriptor for.

 

It’s high and loud and needy, desperately pleasured, and a few more licks has him spilling, coating himself and your face in violet genetic material as he cries out and shakes apart.

 

You pull away slowly, lapping up some of the mess until he whines and shudders and pushes at your head, oversensitive and spent. Your mouth and chin are doused in his color, the color you two share, and the look on his face when he sees you is something between shocked arousal and complete mortification. You lick your lips, a smirk on your face, and he hides his own behind his hands, letting his head thump back onto the desk with a little moan of embarrassment.

 

Poor wriggler isn’t used to seeing someone like this, you figure; if he sticks with you, of course, he soon will be, if only so you can hear those noises of him again, and again, and again…

 

He pushes himself up with weak, shaking arms, and you grab him around the waist and help him lean against you, wiping off your face before bending down to kiss him. He responds with a sort of lazy enjoyment, draping himself loosely over you, body still trembling and jerking with aftershocks even as you rub your hands down his back, coaxing tension from his muscles.

 

“Y-you-“ he stutters, blushing hard, breathing just a bit heavily, “You didn’t, uh-“

 

Didn’t…? Ah, of course. Your own bulge is still knotted unhappily against your stomach, twitching and thrashing as if throwing a tantrum, and at this point no amount of ignoring it will get it to still. Cronus is looking between it and you with his lip held between his teeth, his hands against your sides, and even as they dip lower you catch them in your own, holding them still with a shake of your head.

 

“You’re tired,” you say, voice soft, and you press a kiss to his forehead, “I expect nothin' from you, boy. This was about makin' you feel good, nothin' else.”

 

He lets out a little noise, something akin to a trill, and he hides his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over the sensitive flaps of your gills. He tugs his hands once, you let go, and he settles them on your hips, fins tilting low, cheeks burning bright enough for you to feel the heat of them.

 

“I- I wanna make you feel good,” he says, muffled and shy, and his tongue darts out to trace hard, bony opercula, the cover parting slightly under the sensation, “Please? Ain’t fair to leave you like this, an’ you were so good to me, I wanna do the same for you."

 

You open your mouth to protest, but his tongue touches the lamellae of your gills and you wither, your hands curling in his ungelled hair, pressing his face to your throat as you tremble. His palms skim over scar and skin, fingers dancing across one mark after another, trailing down, until he stops, hesitates, then shakily lets your bulge twine with his fingers. You groan, back bowing, and you rest your head on his, between his horns, as he fumbles with your bulge, obviously unused to touching one. It’s almost cute, the way he can’t seem to figure out what to do with it, but you are sexually frustrated and about to get off with another’s assistance for the first time since you died, and you’re a bit impatient.

 

“You can squeeze a little tighter,” you say, hissing it between gritted teeth, and you comb your hands through his loose curls and buck your hips into his soft, but calloused grip when he obeys, your mouth open, panting hard.

 

He licks into your gills again, his thumb rubbing up against the ridged underside, and you’re hard pressed not to sink your teeth in something; you’re not near as loud as he had been, but you aren’t quiet, either, and it’s habit by now to want to muffle your own noises of pleasure.

 

“That’s it, Cro, now keep movin' your hand just like that, that’s it,” you say, and you tug his head up from your gills and kiss him softly on the mouth when he acquiesces, the points of hardness on his otherwise smooth skin- on the tips and joints of his fingers, not from a gun or pulling rope- a sharp contrast to the smoothness of his palms.

 

Your lips meet, and he lets out a little trill, a whimper, tongue sliding over yours in a wet, slick kiss, and you coat his hand in pre material as you rut into the circle of his fist. He runs his fingers up and down your length, awkwardly, hesitantly, like he’s afraid of messing up; you pull away, breathe, and pet over his cheeks and forehead, thumbs brushing over flushed, soft skin.

 

“Good boy,” you choke out, and he shudders, licking his lips and moving his hand a bit faster, a bit steadier, “Good boy, Cro, that’s it, just like that, fuck-“

 

It feels much better than it should, in all honesty, and you know you won’t last long, but you can hardly bring yourself to care; it’s not the skill of the handjob getting you off, it’s him, the fact that he wants to make you feel good, that he’s so dependent on your praise and your touch. It’s a heady feeling, powerful, good, and you arch your back and buck into his hands with a strangled moan, pressing an eager, sloppy kiss to his open mouth as you spill, coming hard with the release of sweeps of tension.

 

He continues to touch you, light and gentle, unsure even as the desperate kissing dies down to calmer pursuits. You move his hand away yourself when you can’t stand to feel his touch anymore, threading your fingers together despite the slurry coating his and bringing it to your lips, kissing the back of it softly.

 

“Good job,” you say, and he tucks his head up under your chin and trills, gripping your hand tight, “Thank you, Cronus.”

 

Your legs are still a bit shaky, but you lift him from the desk with ease; there’s a puddle of slurry across the dark surface, but you are feeling much too lazy to clean anything up as of right now, and you can imagine the stains away later, anyways. That’s what you do with the mess coating your thighs and his, anyways, and by the time you fall into bed, you’re both clean as can be.

 

Cronus snuggles up against your side, his head resting on your chest, and you bury a hand in his hair and hold him close, shutting your eyes. You’re tired, and you’re sure he is too.

 

“You matter,” you repeat, driving it home, voice quiet but no less truthful for the lack of volume; he tangles your legs together and presses every inch of bare skin that he can up against you, his arms wrapping around your shoulders, hands trembling.

 

“You matter, Cronus,” you say, and his breath hitches, and he nods, relaxing as you rub over his spine, your hand cool against his warmer skin.

 

He mumbles something- whether it be an affirmation, or a disagreement, or a word of thanks, you don’t know- and rubs his cheek against your chest, one fin pressed to your heart. You pet him till he falls asleep, and follow soon after, exhausted, but content.


End file.
